By the Book
by the real snape
Summary: Irma Pince decides to write "A Concise and Infallible Guide to Seducing a Colleague". Each chapter will contain an important Guideline, and examples of how well it works when you live by the book. Not that "Capturing Minerva" wouldn't sell better ...
1. Missing Books

**A/N** Originally written for the LJ day of international femslash. The prompt was Irma/Minerva, By the Book, and my marvellous beta Kellychambliss improved the story in a million ways.

And you'll find the next parts on Sundays, as usual.

**Disclaimer: **JKR owns everything. Except, of course, Irma's book.

**August 30, 1992**

Irma had always missed books.

Not their actual, physical presence. From Muggle paperbacks to the richest of Wizardry leather-and-vellum, books were the centre of her life.

But at each stage of her life there were books she wanted, yet couldn't get. Because they hadn't been written yet. Take children's tales. She'd had her fair share of them, filled with boys and girls in merry gangs, solving thefts and mysteries, having secret night parties. What she'd wanted to read, though, was a book about an only child of elderly parents growing up in a childless area of a small town. A child who didn't fit in with Muggle children because she was 'different'. And who went excitedly to Hogwarts only to find, to her dismay, that she didn't quite fit in with young witches, either, since she preferred books over boys-talk and pop star-giggles. And who was not miraculously saved from loneliness by adventures or a sudden bonding with the most popular girl in school.

At the ripe old age of fourteen, she had even decided to write the book herself. About a real girl, it would be, with a real life. It had taught her an important lesson: Real Life had a dreadful plotline. Still, the writing experience had been consoling. From then on she realized that the paper children only led their fabulously exiting lives because the authors, not hindered by bleak reality, needed a storyline to sell.

In her twenties she would have loved a book about a girl who put her studies first and who truly wanted a job (as, say, a librarian) more than she wanted marriage and babies. There were plenty of books in which the heroine was quite satisfying in chapter one, but in chapter two at the very latest she had met some handsome man, and it was all too clear that Lurrrve Would Conquer Everything.

Her own dates and affairs with handsome – or at least acceptable – men had been much less earth-moving than the paper ones. A fact that she had explained at first from her previous Real Life is Plot-Challenged experience. Later, much later, she had realized that girl-meets-girl was more her thing. And there _were_ books on that, though of very varying quality. Mostly she made up her own stories, using Muggle and Wizard books alike. Elizabeth Bennet and Charlotte Lucas. The Marquise de Merteuil and the Présidente de Tourvel. When she felt very naughty, with a Présidente who didn't completely consent … or she bedded Altheda and Amata, or Asha and Amata; Sir Luckless could remain just that. The possibilities were endless.

During the greater part of her career at Hogwarts, she had been too busy with work to feel any need for the as-yet-unwritten. But what she needed now was a self-help book. Which was a silly name for a work in which the author tries to help you; self-help was what you did when there was no useful literature.

Oh, there were all sorts of books on dating. Most aimed at thirty-somethings with biological clocks as loud as Big Ben. The three main categories were: _"How to Spot a Commitment-phobic", "How to Get Laid AND Get a Wedding-ring"_ and _"When All Else Has Failed"_. What Irma needed was a book that dealt with getting the woman of your dreams. With a few chapters on details such as 'She's Also Your Boss' and 'Keep Your Job During and After Seduction'.

When had it all begun? When had she first seen Minerva in a different light? The basics had all been there years before. The witty remarks that invariably made her day. The pleasant little chats over books they'd both enjoyed. Thinking that the Deputy Headmistress was very good-looking. Lovely body. Graceful movements. Beautiful eyes. Wonderful hair – and then, one day, she'd spent the better part of a dinner staring at that hair, wanting to take out the pins, to see it cascade down that straight back, to run her fingers through it. Elegant, slender hands, that she'd often admired, and that she suddenly wanted to feel on her own body, caressing, exploring, and … aahh … entering.

And right now, at the start of a new school year, as she readied the library and unpacked the new books, she thought of the one volume that could not be found among the thousands she guarded.  
_A Concise and Infallible Guide To Seducing a Colleague_ would do very well, but _Twenty Certain Ways to the Heart (and Body) of Minerva McGonagall_ was what she'd give her life savings for.

Again she felt strongly inclined to write the book herself. Not that she was an expert on the subject, but ordering the Complete Works of Gilderoy Lockhart in preparation for the upcoming year had made her realize that in today's publishing world, actual knowledge and experience were severely underrated.

She had settled on drafting the _Concise and Infallible Guide_. There was a market out there for 'How to Seduce Minerva McG', she was sure of it, but it would be the first book in publishing history that had the author rage with jealousy and frustration at every copy sold. And she wasn't really going to write it, either. Just plot it out in her head, as she had done with so many missing books before. Each chapter would contain an important Guideline, and examples of how well that guideline worked for a witch who lived by the book.

As she arranged the last books in the "This Year's Curriculum" section (and how dreadfully thumbed they would look next June!), she formulated the first two Guidelines.

**Do not indulge in endless erotic fantasies during working hours – it might be noticeable. **  
And  
**Leave the initiative strictly with Minerva. Remember she's also your boss. When she does have a chat with you, be witty and not too personal.**

The first Guideline could be illustrated with all sorts of examples that might yet turn her slim volume into a bestseller.

Just as Irma was aligning the copies of _Voyages with Vampires_ and _Travels with Trolls_ she heard footsteps. Recognizable footsteps. _Leave the initiative strictly with your boss_, she thought.

Turning around, she smiled at Professor McGonagall, who made her way through the library carrying a large clipboard.

"Do you have everything you need for next year, Irma?" she asked, taking out her quill as she spoke.

"Oh, yes, everything is ready for the first of September. Just two more days! Do you look forward to it?" Irma asked, immediately berating herself. That was being personal. Worse, it was dim-witted. Minerva looked tired already; of course she didn't relish the idea of several hundreds of students taking over the place.

"In a way, yes," Minerva answered. "The first day always has a charm of its own, don't you think? The Sorting and all the new faces. And it looks as if all the preparations are nearly done – thank heavens for you and Poppy. At least you two have things under control."

"The others don't, then?" Irma was genuinely surprised – the entire staff seemed to pride itself on its efficiency and dedication and could be quite verbose on the subject.

"Well, they do – if delegating to me counts."

"Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps?" Irma asked, realizing that Minerva must have been absurdly busy to complain about faculty members. But even as she spoke, she mentally chalked up her words as a prime example of _not taking the initiative_ gone wrong. Minerva would refuse, of course – too much to do and not inclined to have tea with the support staff anyhow. She never had done so before.

"Actually, I'd love a cup," Minerva answered to Irma's surprise. After a brief hesitation, Irma pointed to her office.

"Let's go in there," she said. In for a knut, in for a galleon. Her office was usually a private space; she had a desk in the library at which she spent much of her working day. So she'd taken a liberty or two with the furnishings and showing them off might not be a good idea. On the other hand, to serve _liquids_ in the _library_ …

As Minerva entered Irma's small office, Irma anxiously scanned her face. Mild shock, yes, but mostly surprise – pleasant surprise, thank Merlin.

"Irma! This is …," Irma followed Minerva's eyes as they went round the small space. The warmly coloured chintz curtains, the cherry wood desk with a small posy of roses on it, the comfortable wing chair in front of the fire, the pale green and cream walls, mostly covered with bookcases.

"You've done yourself very well!" Minerva exclaimed. "And you're quite right, too," she added hastily, "the place is small enough as it is; you've every right to liven it up a bit."

"It's just … the private quarters of support staff are tiny. I mean, we have just a bedroom, not a full apartment like the faculty. So this is really where I spend quite a lot of my time …" Some sort of explanation was in order, Irma felt. After all, Minerva _was_ the Deputy Headmistress. Quickly, Irma Transfigured an empty book crate into a second cosy wingchair. She waved Minerva towards the chairs, and busied herself with tea and biscuits. And surely, Transfiguring plain wheat crackers into ginger newts didn't count as an initiative?

Minerva nestled comfortably in a chair. Irma poured and asked, "Do you still have a lot of preparing to do?"

"Gilderoy Owled me today that he needs a collection of Cornish Pixies to use in his lessons and a mirror with lamps all around it for the adornment of his Magical Self."

Irma grinned. "Not in those words, presumably," she said. "But how dreadfully Gilderoy. And Pixies? That seems Care of Magical Creatures rather than Dark Arts. Agreed, there's no need to bring another troll into the castle just because he likes to travel with them, but I do wonder why Dumbledore …" She broke off quickly. Great move. A slur on the Headmaster, who reputedly was Minerva's best friend, and a criticism of one of the teachers. So much for living by the book.

"I wonder, too," Minerva replied somewhat acerbically. "I sometimes wish he would appoint Severus and be done with it. It would be easier to recruit a Potions teacher."

"But … surely, what with the jinx … you wouldn't want to lose Severus?"

"I doubt that we would. That jinx – I've always thought it ninety percent rumours. Well, after last year … I don't know. For so long it just seemed a silly superstition. But now …

"It's true that we had some bad appointments in the past," Minerva continued after a brief silence in which she sipped her tea with an appreciative nod. "Roderick was fired after a year. But that was no jinx; he behaved totally unprofessionally with some of the prettier N.E.W.T.'s students. And Felicity resigned because she had no discipline. 'Let's all be _really, really_ good friends' isn't the best way to start with one's pupils, and 'birds in their little nests agree' isn't just an ornithological error, it's unutterably trite. I can't blame the students for pulling pranks, although they shouldn't have sent that 'You-Know-Who-Loves-You' Valentine card. And then they both used that so-called jinx as an excuse for their failure, and now only third-rate teachers will apply. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Irma finally let out the peal of laughter she'd tried to suppress. "I'd heard some rumours, but the way you tell it ... Brilliant. They really sent that Valentine?"

"They did," Minerva chuckled. "And these days a DADA teacher only has to sneeze for people to start telling him he's doomed. Only six years ago Charles left because his future father-in-law offered him a fully equipped potions lab to play with – to do research in, I mean. "

"But Charles _is_ the living proof of the jinx, you know," Irma grinned.

"A first-class lab and a free income? You call that a jinx?"

"He had to marry Marigold. That's a fate worse than death."

"Merlin, yes. I hadn't thought of that. Don't mention it to anyone; it would only fuel the tales. Or do mention it to Gilderoy. So far, he has sent seven Owls and that list of mandatory books – does he think every parent is made of money?" Minerva snorted angrily as she reached for a second ginger newt.

****  
It was almost an hour later before Irma returned to unpack the last of the Lockhart Blurb, as she had begun to call them. Critically, she looked back on her afternoon. For following guidelines, zero points, she thought. But for having a brilliant afternoon, tea with Minerva, and an hour that almost felt as … as the beginning of a real friendship … not just a being-friendly-with-a-colleague thing …  
Irma decided that, all in all, chapter one had been a resounding success. From now on, however, she'd stick to guidelines one and two, and she'd remember the just-invented number three on _all_ occasions:

**Now that you've issued a first invitation, hold back a bit. **Don't make Minerva feel as if she's being stalked.


	2. A Secret Wine Cache

**November 1st, 1992**

With a sigh, Irma locked up the library. It had been a most fatiguing day. All everyone had wanted to do was discuss Halloween, the Petrification of Mrs. Norris, and the possible involvement of Potter. General opinion seemed to be that someone who flew to Hogwarts in a Muggle car was capable of anything. Irma had spent endless hours reminding students that a library was a place for reading and studying – both of which could and should be done in silence.

She was now more than ready for a quiet drink in The Three Broomsticks.

****  
"Usual, love?" Rosmerta asked with her trademark welcoming smile. Irma nodded and sat down in a quiet corner. The place was almost deserted. Most of the regulars would be at home nursing Halloween hangovers, Irma thought, and the Hogwarts teachers, who would occasionally meet up for drinks, preferred the Friday and Saturday nights. Which was why Irma was rather fond of Sundays.

Soon Rosmerta would serve her a glass of Sancerre and a small bowl of peanuts, with the inevitable "There love, let's fatten you up a bit – you could use it." The bowl was a standard courtesy of the house, the remark a mere friendly cliché. Still, it was a ritual Irma had grown attached to over the years. Rosmerta always looked at her body with real envy, making her feel slender rather than thin. And she smiled as if she meant it. Irma, who had few real friends among the staff, found life somewhat bleak on occasions and warmed herself at Rosmerta's friendliness – stock-in-trade or not.

The clink of a glass on a marble bar top. The gurgling sound of wine being poured. Rosmerta's footsteps.  
"There, love, let's … Minerva! What brings you here, on a Sunday?"

Utterly surprised, Irma turned around. True enough, Minerva McGonagall walked towards the bar. There is no need for Rosmerta to ask what brings her here, Irma thought. She needs a drink, and she needs some peace and quiet – or perhaps a listening ear?

"Minerva! Would you like to join me?"

That was 'don't stalk' down the drain, Irma realized. True, since their first, unexpected tea party, there had been others – it had become a fairly regular occurrence. Lately Minerva had just nodded in the direction of Irma's office whenever she came to the library. If Irma hadn't known how busy Minerva was, she'd have thought that the Deputy was seeking her out.

Still, today Min had clearly come to find some peace. She deserved to be left alone.

"Yes, I'd love that," Minerva answered. Irma sighed imperceptibly. Min was nothing if not scrupulously polite; she'd never show her annoyance. Irma should have kept quiet all the same. And she shouldn't call her 'Min' either, not even in her thoughts. One of these days she'd slip up; they might almost be friends now, but there was no need for over familiarity.

"Hard day?" she enquired, mentioning to Rosmerta to order a second glass of Sancerre.

"Dreadful. First of all, the Halloween do, which I frankly dislike, then that business with Potter and Mrs. Norris …"

"Still no idea of who did it?" Irma asked.

"Unfortunately, no. That is … No. No, we've no idea, it could have been anyone."

Which meant that they had an idea – Albus and Minerva, but that Min shouldn't have mentioned it. Best to pretend she hadn't noticed.

"The Weasley Twins?" Irma suggested. It seemed a bit crueller than their usual pranks, but on Halloween's Night? With the Weasley Twins everything was possible.

"I doubt it. Argus has accused them, of course. Once Albus told him he believed Potter unconditionally."

"Frankly, Potter would have been my second guess – not that I'd suspect him of cruelty to animals, not at all, but he always does seem to get into trouble," said Irma.

"Quite. When you're in teaching as long as I am, Irma, you know that there's always one, and it's usually the same. This is excellent, by the way; what is it?" Minerva stared at the dewy glass she was holding.

"Oh, sorry, I ordered without asking. My usual, Sancerre."

"I really _like_ it! I've only had white Muggle wine – that's what it is, isn't it?"

Irma nodded.

"Only had that once, and then I loathed it. Far too sweet. I've only ever drunk red since. But this is really quite good."

"Well, I'm glad you like it. Sometimes white wines can be absurdly sweet, or they taste of oak so much you'd think they let sawdust soak in it. But this is a French one. And so bone dry, you may want to order a drink with it."

Minerva grinned. "Frankly, this is just what I need," she said. "There's Argus, who is terribly upset, and Potter, who didn't do this, but who didn't tell the whole truth either. And on top of that, there's Gilderoy. So far he has upset Pomona by offering to help her with her Mandrakes and Severus by wanting to assist with his potions. And tonight he overheard me describe a Transfiguration project to Aurora, and he said that if I needed some help with the trickier bits, I could always call on him. And he'd show me. "

"What did you say?" Irma asked in eager anticipation.

"I said _thank you, but no, _", was the unexpected reply.

"That showed … remarkable restraint."

"That's what I felt. And then I decided to come here, before even my remarkable restraint would crumble. Can I get you a refill? This wine is really good."

And over several glasses of Sancerre, Minerva told Irma exactly how she had wanted to Transfigure that ludicrous peacock quill into a whole bunch of feathers; where she had meant to stick them ("And I may need help with the _trickier_ bits, but when I stick something it stays stuck"); and which spell she would have used to make those feathers stand up in a full peacock's tail whenever Lockhart got above himself. ("What on earth made you stop? It sounds perfect!" "The idea that he would love the adornment, that's what.")

Breaking Guideline Three, Irma thought as she prepared herself for bed that night, had given her a wonderful evening.

**January 3rd, 1993**

As Irma heard the library door open, she looked up eagerly from the book she was reading. It was Minerva, as she had hoped. Not that she expected an invitation for a drink at Rosmerta's. They had had a few since that first Sunday night. But since Finch-Fletchley had been attacked, Minerva hardly left the castle for a walk in the grounds, even. But a chat would be lovely. Irma might even offer tea. Could offer a glass of wine, actually, but it wouldn't do to advertise the fact that she kept drinks in one of her filing cupboards. A dear friend Minerva most definitely was by now, but that didn't change the fact that she was also the Deputy Headmistress.

**Guideline number four**, Irma told herself firmly, **don't mention secret wine caches. **One faculty member on cooking sherry is quite enough for Minerva to deal with.

"Am I disturbing you? What were you reading?"

You never disturb, Irma thought, but she answered, "_Hairy Snout, Human Heart_. Do you know it?"

"I saw it at Flourish and Blotts, but the cover blurb wasn't promising. Is it any good?"

"Actually, yes. I had my doubts about that so-called 'heart-rending account of one wizard's battle with lycanthropy' myself. So very maudlin. But it's actually rather funny and very well-written. He can tell a joke against himself; few people can."

"You can say that again," Minerva remarked with a scathing look at a book on a nearby table, on the cover of which Gilderoy was waving and smiling madly. Irma grinned.

"He's been giving trouble again?" she asked.

"This time it's Poppy. Gilderoy heard a rumour about Miss Granger, and he offered to tell Poppy what to do about her wandwork. And Poppy, _Poppy_ of all people, told him what _he_ could do with his _wand_. Thank heavens there were no students around. Only Miss Granger might have heard, and she was understandably preoccupied."

"Miss Granger? I hadn't heard anything yet. What's wrong with her? Don't tell me she …" No, of course not, Irma thought. Petrified people aren't 'preoccupied'. But she was anxious, all the same. Nice girl, Miss Granger. Very. A brilliant student, who knew what was what in a library. She peered anxiously at Minerva.

"Miss Granger has had an unfortunate accident with a potion. She's with Poppy at the moment; it will take several weeks to get rid of the hair and the tail.

"Oh, Irma, it's been such a ghastly week … First Finch-Fletchley. And all the students who left Hogwarts for Christmas after all – of course they did. Only sensible. But _Hogwarts_ not being _safe_ anymore… And Albus begins to feel that this might really mean that the Chamber … "  
Minerva stared blindly at Irma's desk, rubbing the deep wrinkle above her eyebrows. Irma felt her heart clench in sympathy. Hogwarts is Min's life, she thought, even more than it's mine. And do those students know how deeply she cares about them?

"You could do with a cup of tea," she said. And before she could stop to think, she placed her hand comfortingly on Min's and added, "Or with a drink, even. How about a glass of wine in my office? And you can tell me all about Miss Granger."

****  
Perhaps, Irma mused as she looked back on their little drinking section, the _Concise and Infallible Guide to Seducing a Colleague_ could do with a subtitle. "The Road Not Taken" seemed to suggest itself, given her utter failure to follow any of her own guidelines at all. But yet again she'd been lucky. Minerva had clearly enjoyed their chat. Moreover, she hadn't been angry over that whole, dreadful business with Miss Granger. When Minerva had told her that the Granger girl suffered from Polyjuice Potion gone wrong and wondered how on earth she'd managed to prepare it in the first place, Irma nearly had had a heart failure.

With a sickening feeling in her stomach, she'd explained that Miss Granger had got the _Most Potente Potions_ from her – that is to say, from Hogwarts Library. Irma had told all about Lockhart's note and had apologized profusely for not mentioning it before. But Minerva had simply nodded, and had said that, after all, the rules were that teachers should sign for restricted books, and that Irma couldn't be expected to double-check on them.

Fortunately, Miss Granger would be perfectly all right in a week or so, and if anyone could afford to miss some lessons, she could.

"But _why_ did she want Polyjuice potion, did she tell you that?" Irma had asked, truly interested.

"She didn't – she wouldn't. And I didn't insist; surely she's been punished enough. She was clearly frightfully embarrassed, trying to cover up for something or someone. For Potter and Weasley, I thought at first, but they are both perfectly all right. Perhaps she wanted to make it, simply to see – to prove – that she could. I can understand _that_", Min had said.

You could, indeed, Irma had thought. I bet you were exactly that kind of student yourself. And she had gathered up the courage to advance a theory of her own.

"Perhaps she wanted to change into one of the popular girls in Gryffindor. To feel what it's like to belong. Of course, things are much better for her now that she has Potter and Weasley – I think she had a truly dreadful time during her first months.

"But that still leaves the Girls' Dormitory. You know – endless talks of boys and clothes and make-up; giggling about teachers and all that nonsense. I don't think she's very much a part of that. Perhaps she wanted to feel what it's like to fit in.

"I feel for the poor thing. For it wouldn't have worked anyhow, you know. It's not about what you look like; it's about who you are on the inside. And you can't chance that – but she doesn't realize that yet, of course."

Irma had stopped there, conscious that she was babbling. But Minerva had looked at her and had said, "Yes. Yes, I _do_ see what you mean." And Irma felt that Min had seen indeed – far beyond the subject of Miss Granger.

So that's what having a best friend is about, Irma thought contentedly. Not so much having someone to whom you could say anything, but not even _needing_ to say it.

If this lovely friendship was what her ill-obeyed Guidelines had brought her, then Irma was more than happy with the results of not quite living by the book. Perhaps the final Guideline should simply be **don't rock the boat**. Be happy with what you have. The view from halfway up the hill is splendid; sit back and enjoy it. Don't wish for a top you'll never reach.


	3. Valentine Day

**February 14th 1993**  
There _was_ something – or someone – behind that curtain, Irma thought as she stood very still at several yards' distance. Not for the first time she cursed the impossibility of Disapparating at Hogwarts. What if …

Then again, whatever had been in the Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be invincible and deadly. It had no need to lurk behind curtains. The most likely explanation contained the words 'adolescents', 'hormones', and 'Valentine'.

Irma cleared her throat. The curtain moved. Irma steadied herself against the wall, her wand ready in her hand.

"Is that you, Irma? Thank heaven for that."

Minerva McGonagall stepped out of the little recess. Irma blessed herself for having had the good sense to talk first and hex later. Minerva looked exhausted – again.

She works far too hard, Irma thought. And patrols endlessly. Hasn't had a good night's sleep in months, I'd say.

"What were you doing _there_?" she asked, utterly astonished. Another round of patrolling? Did Min want to find out something? She couldn't be hiding, the thought was too ludicrous for words – a less than stellar description for a thought that had just been put into words, Irma realised.

"I was hiding," Minerva sighed. "I'm trying to get to my rooms, and I can't take three steps in this bloody castle without someone stopping me with yet another problem. I'm at my wit's end."

She looked at Irma, made a movement as if to continue speaking, then stopped.

"Do you want me to walk you to your rooms?" Irma said. "I mean," she added hastily, "you could pretend that we have some important discussion; it might stop people from talking to you."

"That's just what I wanted to ask you," Minerva smiled. "Would you? I _am_ sorry to bother you …"

As if, Irma thought, walking up with Minerva, taking care to look businesslike.

"What was it today?" she asked.

"That Valentine card action. If I hear one more rendition of 'His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,' I'll scream. And you know what that damn Lockhart did next?'

Irma was briefly remembered of a childhood favourite among her Muggle books, 'What Katy Did Next'. This didn't seem the right moment to bring it up.

"No, what is it _this_ time? I got a card from him with _Surely the Hogwarts Books must love you!_ on the inside, but I thought that rather amusing. That is, I amused myself shortlisting books to send to him - the one that bites, or the one that gets stuck to your hand, or even the one that makes the reader feel as if he's living inside it."

Minerva grinned, and immediately looked stern and concerned again, as befitted a Deputy Headmistress in deep conversation with the Librarian.

"Surely that could be a pleasant experience?"

"It's set during the Goblin Wars, at the time when the Goblins were winning."

"Ah, I see. Well, your day was at least as well-spent as that of your colleagues."

They had reached Minerva's door, and to Irma's surprise – and delight – Min invited her in.

"Would you like a drink? Ogdens? Wine? I've only red, I'm afraid …"

"A glass of red would be lovely," Irma said, as she sat down in one of the cosy chairs and looked around. Lovely room, it was. Soothing. Must be a haven, after Min's usual working day. Quickly, she returned her attention to the interrupted conversation. No need for rude staring.

"What did the others do, then? Oh, Merlin, no! Don't tell me … He didn't send cards to _everyone_, did he?"

"I'll spare you the discussions on the individual cases and just give you the summary," Minerva grinned, as she served the glasses and sat down contentedly in another chair.

"Pomona was treated to _Surely there's a little lovage for you!_, and ponders the use of a Shrivelfig – she said that even if it doesn't shrink his ego it still might work on other bits.

"Argus got _Surely you'll find another cat to love!_ He merely wants to hang, drown, and quarter Lockhart. And scatter his ashes on the four winds. As Argus put it in his inimitable way: 'A short, sharp shock will do the bastard good'.

"And Filius got _Surely there's a _little_ love for you!_; he contemplates a colour change charm – on Lockhart's person or on his wardrobe, whatever would pain him more."

Irma couldn't help herself. She screamed with laughter. "Oh, Minerva, it's priceless – you should have been an actress. The way you tell it … and as to Filius, I'd definitely recommend changing the hair and eyes. It's quite clear that Potter's not-so-silent admirer has never really seen the colour of a freshly pickled toad, but the idea is not without merit. You might suggest …"

"You're right, and I will."

Minerva laughed and looked less tired, Irma noticed with pleasure.

"I'll get us a refill," she told Minerva, "you stay where you are. You deserve a bit of rest. Put your feet up."

For a moment Irma feared she had overstepped the mark; it was the first time she was in Minerva's private rooms. Surely it was too forward of her, to do the honours like that – to act as if she _belonged_ here? But Min just smiled and thanked her.

She filled both glasses carefully, anxious not to spill a drop on Minerva's side table. Then she put Minerva's glass on a small occasional table next to her chair. Min had closed her eyes for a moment. Irma realised how utterly drained the Deputy must feel, what with overexcited students, disgruntled staff, the Petrification victims, Lockhart's idiocies – the list was endless.

Irma looked down on Min's face. A small lock of hair had escaped the immaculate bun, and the worry-line between her eyes was deeper than usual. She felt a sudden rush of tenderness and without stopping to think, she did what she had done hundreds of times during exactly the kind of erotic fantasies her Guidelines advised against: she briefly caressed Min's cheek.

And before she had time to panic over that insane familiarity, Minerva held her hand. "Oh, you're such a comfort - just being with you makes me feel better," she whispered, pulled Irma gently towards her and kissed her cheek.

A grateful peck-on-the-cheek from a good friend – that's what it was, Irma thought. She had been lucky yet again – Min could have been horrified. But then, somehow, while Irma was still counting her blessings, she ended up sitting on the armrest of the chair, and they were kissing for real.

"I've wanted to do that for months," Minerva whispered. Irma felt Min's hands exploring her body, lingering on her breasts. This, she thought, is where I ought to stop her. She's had a hellish day in a hellish year; she's tired; she downed that wine far too quickly; she'll regret it in the morning. It would be a chivalrous, Gryffindor act to back out now.

Thank Merlin I'm a Ravenclaw.

Look at it rationally. Min isn't a blushing maiden. She's a grown woman, older than I in fact, more experienced probably, and she'll not thank me for deciding what _she_ wants or doesn't want.

As her hands began to explore Minerva's body as eagerly as Min explored hers, she suddenly, incongruously, had a mental flashback to Granny Pince's kitchen. Gran, baking as always, using the pastry roll to underline her every word, saying, "It's the things you _didn't_ do that you'll regret when you're my age, girl, far more than the things you _did_ do."

You really were the greatest, Gran, Irma thought as she cupped Minerva's breast in her hand, moved over to sit next to her in the chair – half next to her, the chair being too small. And witches' robes are a cursed nuisance, she thought.

But anyone who could lift heavy books wordlessly and wandlessly could get robes halfway up a witch's thighs without undignified groping. Tentatively at first – was she going too far? – she caressed Min's legs, getting bolder as Minerva moaned with pleasure.

Minerva leaned over to lift Irma's robes, pausing briefly to stroke her ankle. Min's hand was on her calves, and then brushed the hollow of her knee with delicate fingertips. Were there nerves that ran straight from your knee to … there …? Irma wondered. And groping isn't undignified, it's much better than magic – don't think of using spells ever again don't think …

Fingers teasing the outside of her thighs, then the inside, then moving up and up and …oh, no … down again… and up, drawing circles, approaching but never quite touching where Irma craved to be touched, until she was a quivering mass of longing in Minerva's hands.

"Please …," she gasped, still not bold enough to ask outright. At last, Minerva finally put one tantalizing finger between Irma's legs.

Touches that went from feather light to more insistent, making Irma's hips buck. Minerva's hand cupping her mound, the soft pressure of a palm, fingers teasing her, pressing against her knickers …

She'll notice I'm all wet, Irma thought. Already. She must think I'm …

"You're all wet," Minerva whispered – was that relief?

"You really want me," Min went on – had she _seriously_ doubted that? Ever? _Minerva_ had been _insecure_ … as insecure as Irma herself? That's awful, Irma thought, Min must never feel …

"I want you so much," Irma whispered, quickly, before her courage would fail her. "I've wanted you for months, for … please, your bedroom."

They just made it to the room before Irma frantically unbuttoned Minerva's robes – was that a tearing sound? And so what? They were witches, they'd put it right … whenever. As the simple, cotton shift Min wore underneath fell down Irma gasped in surprise. _Satin_ underwear? Embroidered? _Purple and black?_ Well, what did you expect, she thought. Gryffindor red? Tartan? Min has taste.

"Gorgeous," she whispered. Minerva smiled, taking it the way it was meant: as a comment on more than sensuous underwear.

"I'm not prim and proper all the way through," Min murmured. And that, too, was about things other than damn sexy knickers.

As Min undressed her, Irma had a brief moment of panic – which bra am I wearing, she thought. Does it even match? And when did I last shave my armpits? Min will hate that; it must look …

"Oh, god, I _need_ you," Minerva said, with a voice so full of longing that Irma felt a ripple of excitement run through her body. Clearly, Ravenclaws could be wrong, too.

Several hours later, as Irma watched the pale moonlight move from the bedpost to the puddle of clothes on the floor, and to Min's face, relaxed and smiling next to her, she let the images float through her mind in wondering enjoyment.

Min's face, studying hers as her hand pinched Irma's nipple, caressed her tummy, stroked her softly; teasing out moans, teasing out wetness as, with her other hand, she worked one, two, then three fingers into Irma's body. And then Min's mouth had replaced one hand, and Irma had gasped and finally screamed when that soft tongue and those long, tapered fingers pushed her over the edge.

And Min herself, spread out in complete abandonment, moaning 'yes' and 'please'. The way she looked when she came, how she had clamped down on Irma's fingers. The dizzying sense of power and exhilaration, that _she_, Irma Pince, could make someone – Minerva! - feel like that.

She grinned briefly as she thought about her own insecurities. There might be a booklet – or an article – in that, she thought. Wandless, wordless Transfiguration spells, that'll take care of legs, armpits, toenails, and underwear, at times when witches found themselves in … unexpected situations.

But would she have the time, or the inclination, for much writing in the future? Somehow, she doubted it.

_Countless Certain Ways to the Heart (and Body) of Minerva McGonagall_ might well be her Magnum Opus.

**a/n** Next week's story has a decent walk-on (yes, one could call it _walk_ on) part for Minerva. However, it will show up as Rita/ Poppy.


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